tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39791100727531829322023-11-16T04:40:00.332-08:00molly dunhamMollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-68664150794469969002014-09-25T13:58:00.001-07:002014-09-26T09:50:27.653-07:00On Poetry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Tour</div>
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by Carol Snow</div>
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<em>Near a shrine in Japan he'd swept the path</em></div>
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<em>and then placed camellia blossoms there.</em></div>
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<em>Or - we had no way of knowing -</em></div>
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<em>he'd swept the path between fallen camellias.</em></div>
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Since my kids returned to school last month, I've been a bit bored. Well, not bored exactly. Being bored implies I have nothing to do, which is far from the truth. A better description of my status would be: in limbo. The kids still need me, just not as much as they used to, which means I have hours a day to myself. Hours. All. To. Myself. The rest of the time, I'm like a plane circling the airport waiting to land, waiting for someone to say, "Mom!" so I can touch down and be of use.</div>
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"You're life is so boring," my daughter said. "All you do is watch documentaries, listen to podcasts and read books all day long." To a 14 year old girl, my life seems like purgatory. <em>So boring</em>. Of course that's not all I do; it's just the part of my day I enjoy most. My house has never been cleaner, nor has dinner been more consistently on time. Our dirty clothes are cleaned <em>and</em> put away in less than 24 hours of wearing them. Amazing. I go to the gym, hike with friends, paddleboard across a lake, or shop for hours, and no one even knows I'm gone! And since I'm no longer in charge of selecting and implementing curriculum for my kids, I'm doing it for myself. In addition to cosmology and astrophysics (I even have a textbook!), I'm studying poetry. </div>
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My method is this: </div>
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I read a poem from a <a href="http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/" target="_blank">poem-a-day website</a> (never mind that it's for high schoolers - I'm a teenager at heart); </div>
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transcribe it into a pretty composition book;</div>
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think about it's meaning (or google it's meaning if I have no idea what the poem is about);</div>
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and record my thoughts about the poem (if any). </div>
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Yesterday I learned that remora, the fish that latches onto sharks to feed on their leftovers, means "to delay" in Latin, based on the belief that fish attached to boats and slowed them down. </div>
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From today's poem, Tour by Carol Snow, I learned my life's purpose. Or at least my life's current purpose as a mother. "Today's poem reminds us there are two ways of looking at things. Note: This is such a short poem, it should be read twice," read the instructions preceding the poem. I read it several times and was inspired to sit down and write about it, and as I wrote, another meaning revealed itself.</div>
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On the surface of the poem, I can relate to the nameless, faceless "he", the sweeper of camellia blossoms, who I imagine to be a monk from the shrine. I too sweep the floor (almost) daily, but my work goes unnoticed; the floor gets dirty again. It's as if I've done nothing. The same is true for all other housework.</div>
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Or - my life is so tidy, organized and simple right now - my alone time nearly monastic, my home often quiet as a shrine. Is this just the natural flow of things? The sweeping<em> between fallen camellias</em>. Or - did I work really hard to set it up this way? The intentional placing of camellia blossoms: the years I spent fostering independent children, creating a peaceful home, an environment conducive to growth, and financial simplicity which affords me the time and space to stay at home... and ponder poetry and physics.</div>
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Either way, the path before me is beautiful and inviting. On the surface it's sprinkled with bright, dewy petals, and underneath, it's paved with intention. The behind the scenes effort to construct the current scene makes it appear effortless, natural, as it should be. <em>Swept. </em></div>
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Life is like poetry: we don't have to know what it means to enjoy it. Perhaps there is <em>no way of knowing </em>anyways.</div>
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Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-71750508914616526452014-06-02T16:22:00.001-07:002014-06-02T16:22:41.044-07:00To Write<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Random Doodling by Avery</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="color: #666666;">George and I recently watched a fantastic documentary: “</span><a href="http://mortifiednation.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666;">Mortified Nation</span></a><span style="color: #666666;">”, based on live events held around the world where adults go on stage and read excerpts of their childhood diaries. I laughed, I cried, I cringed. True to its title, it was mortifying.
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I kept several different journals throughout my childhood, but none of them survived to bear witness to my awkward adolescence. I destroyed my journals, not just because they contained sensitive information, but because, now as always, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I hate what I write</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">. This is quite a conundrum for someone who identifies as a writer. I can barely bring myself to read things that I wrote a few years or even months ago. An old grocery list culled from the bottom of my purse once brought me shame. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://waldorfish.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #666666;">My good friend</span></a><span style="color: #666666;"> called me this weekend to ask for permission to reprint a blog post I wrote a few years ago. Of course I gave my immediate consent because, well, I’d do anything for her, and also because, let’s face it, I was flattered. A post I had written <em>in 2011</em> had made an impression on her, and was timely and relevant to a writing project of her own. But when I went back to read it, I cringed. Bits and pieces of it were ok, maybe even good, but I thought to myself, I could have done better. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Therein lies the rub of writing. It can always be better, which is exactly why I force myself to keep on doing it, even if it means blushing with embarrassment upon hitting the "publish" button, or ripping apart journals and burying them at the bottom of the trash can. Every once in a while, if I’m lucky, a sentence or a paragraph turns out to be really great. It escapes my vicious editorial weeding, plants itself in a reader’s mind and grows. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How could I hate that?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #666666; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Over the weekend we excavated a strip of weed covered dirt in the backyard to, quite literally, pave a path from the house to an outbuilding we constructed a few years ago. Originally intended as a garden shed, its purpose has been upgraded. With a thorough cleaning and a bit of sprucing, it will become my studio, a place I can go to write without as many distractions (no piles of dirty dishes or laundry, to be specific). With shovel in hand, I told George, “It feels like we’re building a path to my future.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #666666; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A room of one’s own </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #666666;">does not a writer make, but it seems a good place to practice . . . or at least a place to record and destroy my mortifying moments in private.</span></span></span><br />
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Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-78927931718019645002014-05-06T14:21:00.001-07:002014-05-06T14:21:11.853-07:00To Be the BestMy son sits on the floor with his art supplies, a science book, and a fresh sheet of paper. His project is to draw a diagram of the circulatory system. <br />
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"[So-and-so] always draws the best pictures. I want my picture to be the best one on the wall for Open House," he tells me as he labels the ventricles of the heart. <br />
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My heart knows this feeling. The desire to be the best. The burn of coming in second. Competition pumps through his veins just as it flows through my arteries. <br />
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But I'm trying to change my pulse. Slow it down. Shift from the desire <em>to be the best</em> to the drive <em>to do my best</em>. Stop the comparison of my work to the work of others, because here's the thing: somebody else's best doesn't make mine the worst.<br />
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Their fast doesn't make mine slow.<br />
Their strong doesn't make mine weak.<br />
Their smart doesn't make mine dumb.<br />
Their pretty doesn't make mine ugly.<br />
Their interesting doesn't make mine boring.<br />
Their right doesn't make mine wrong.<br />
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To compare is easy, natural even. To appreciate is the challenge. So-and-so's art inspires my son to create, just as accomplished authors inspire me to write, strong athletes inspire me to push harder, and generous friends inspire me to give more. Their best makes us better. <br />
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There's only room for one best in any given pursuit, but there is infinite space in this world for better. <br />
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Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-62252991368124423002014-03-17T13:14:00.001-07:002014-03-17T13:14:34.396-07:00To Fight is FutileRelationships are precarious. People are volatile. A friendship, marriage, or business arrangement can be dissolved with just a few words. <br />
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<strong>"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are,"</strong> wrote Anais Nin. When a dispute arises, neither party can see things from the other's perspective. Literally. As David McRaney writes on his blog, <a href="http://youarenotsosmart.com/2011/10/05/the-benjamin-franklin-effect/" target="_blank">You Are Not So Smart</a>:<br />
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"The brain scans of a person shown statements which oppose their political stance show the highest areas of the cortex, the portions responsible for providing rational thought, get less blood until another statement is presented which confirms their beliefs. Your brain literally begins to shut down when you feel your ideology is threatened."<br />
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<strong>Your brain shuts down when presented with ideas contrary to your own</strong>. The experiment referenced was based on political stances, but it seems likely the physical reaction is the same for issues of religion, race, sexuality, and lifestyle choices. When my husband and I almost split up over a broken doorknob, I can assure you neither of us were experiencing proper blood flow to our frontal cortexes.<br />
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Even when we attempt to see things from someone else's point of view, we're limited by our own perspective. We could make a million guesses as to what somebody else thinks and still be wrong. I am reminded of the end of Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird", when Scout walks Boo Radley to his front door then turns around and surveys her neighborhood from his porch. She imagines the events of the past year as Boo might have seen them. <br />
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"Atticus was right. One time he said you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch was enough."<br />
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You might be able to walk up to a person's front door, but you can never see out of that door the way they do. Most of us are so busy looking out our own front door we don't even think about observing our neighborhood from our neighbor's porch. But what view are we missing? Boo, the neighborhood boogey man, turned out to be a "real nice" guy. <br />
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"Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them," Atticus said, right again.<br />
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Relationships are precious. People are valuable. A friendship, marriage, or business arrangement can be solidified with just a few words. <br />
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<strong>"Would you rather be right or happy?"</strong> BuddhaMollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-70396212579854504232014-02-13T15:46:00.000-08:002014-02-13T15:46:51.230-08:00What I Read: January<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My dad is never without a book. When we travel together, he inevitably finishes one book and reads most of another - over the course of a long weekend. A few years ago I urged him to keep a list of the books he reads, mainly because I was curious how many books he reads in a year, but also because I've witnessed him read a few chapters of a book and say, "I think I've read this one before." The first year he kept track, I believe he was just a few books shy of 100.<br />
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I read A LOT, and though I don't read anywhere close to 100 books a year, I am curious how many books I can read in one year, and while I rarely forget a book, I often forget what I've recently read. So this year I'm keeping track, and sharing my reading list here with a few brief notes.<br />
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<em>The Fault In Our Stars</em> by John Green: I actually listened to the audiobook, but I bought a copy for my daughter and I might sit down and read it when she finishes it. I fell in love with the characters, and cried when . . . I won't tell you. You just have to read it and remember back to when you were a teenager in love and when nothing seemed to go your way and when all that mattered in life were your friends, and wish that you had been as witty and wise as Hazel Grace or had loved somebody as raw and romantic as Augustus Waters.<br />
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<em>Why We Write</em> edited by Meredith Mann: A collection of writing lessons from 20 writers across a wide spectrum of genres. Indispensable advice for wordsmiths. I especially appreciate Mary Karr's consolation: "For most writers there's a span of twenty years or so when you can't write because you're doing eighty seven other things." So that explains it! I'm in the midst of a twenty year drought.<br />
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<em>The Uncoupling</em> by Meg Wolitzer: I really wanted to love this book, but alas, it fell short of my expectations. However, the following passage spoke to me: "Wasn't one of the goals of life to be comfortable in your own skin and in your own bed and on your own land? But as soon as you achieved it, you felt an immense sadness, and then you wanted to wreck everything around you, just because you could. Comfort was the best thing, and maybe the worst."<br />
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<em>The Wife</em> also by Meg Wolitzer: Just because I didn't love <em>The Uncoupling</em> didn't mean I was going to abandon Wolitzer, and fortunately so, for <em>The Wife</em> is MY MOST FAVORITE BOOK EVER! I have never, in all my years of reading, claimed to have a favorite book. If Philip Roth's <em>The Human Stain</em> and a few of Alice Munro's short stories had an orgy, <em>The Wife</em> would be their unexpected love child. Now I am not saying that <em>The Wife</em> is the best book ever written and that you should absolutely read it, but rather that this book got me in a way no other book has. If you want to know me, read this book; or at least read this excerpt:<br />
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<em>"Everyone needs a wife; even wives need wives. Wives tend, they hover. Their ears are twin sensitive instruments, satellites picking up the slightest scrape of dissatisfaction. Wives bring brother, we bring paper clips, we bring ourselves and our pliant, warm bodies. We know just what o say to the men who for some reason have a great deal of trouble taking consistent care of themselves or anyone else.</em><br />
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<em>'Listen,' we say. 'Everything will be okay.'</em><br />
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<em>And then, as if our lives depend on it, we make sure it is." </em><br />
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Meg, Meg, Meg. Yes, yes, yes.<br />
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<em>The Art of Fielding </em>by Chad Harbach: Eh. Not a favorite, but I will say that just because the plot centers around baseball doesn't mean the book is all about sports. And I should also say that I have a newfound interest in sports since becoming a coach and an athlete, so reading about a character's struggle with training, competing, winning and losing is of great interest to me. Perhaps my favorite thing about this book was the book within the book, a field guide for fielders by a Hall of Fame fielder, also called <em>The Art of Fielding</em>; particularly this quote:<br />
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<em>"3. There are three stages: Thoughtless being. Thought. Return to thoughtless being.</em><br />
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<em>33. Do not confuse the first and third stages. Thoughtless being is attained by everyone, the return to thoughtless being by a very few."</em><br />
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I caught my new goal in left field: thoughtless being. It fell from the sky, right into my open glove.<br />
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One month. Five books. Eleven months to go. A zillion books I'd like to read this year. Time to get to work.<br />
Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-65436133327136802052014-02-10T16:27:00.000-08:002014-02-10T16:27:35.228-08:00Step Up and LiftI step up to a racked barbell and wrap my fingers around it, my hands just outside my shoulders. I duck my head under the barbell and stand up, lifting the bar off the rack. With the barbell resting on my upper back, balanced on my "muscle pillow" as I like to call it, I step back and away from the rack. I take a deep breath and look straight ahead, focusing on a knot in the wood on the wall in front of me. <br />
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"Down and up," I tell myself, a reminder of the simple movement that is the back squat. Down I go into a squat, staring at the knot in the wall, squeezing my butt and abs, keeping my chest up, driving my knees out, imagining I'm spreading the floor apart with my feet as I stand up, returning to my starting position. I rack the barbell, add more weight, and do it again. When I reach my max weight, meaning I can squat down but not stand back up, I drop the barbell, strip some weight, re-rack it, and attempt to max out on my shoulder press. <br />
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"Breathe and push," I tell myself, focusing on the knot in the wood on the wall as I press the barbell from my shoulders until it's straight over my head and my arms are fully extended. I add weight after each successful lift until I can no longer push the barbell all the way up. Four or five times I'm able to raise the bar to eye level, but no further. My failure reveals my goal for the next time I perform the shoulder press. I move the barbell from the rack to the ground and add a few 45 pound plates to set up for the dead lift. <br />
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"Step up and lift," I tell myself. Feeling the cold steel against my shins, I push my butt back towards the wall behind me and reach down to grip the bar, keeping my arms straight, sensing tension in my hamstrings. I wiggle my toes to make sure my own weight is in my heels. I look straight ahead and pick a raindrop on the window as my focal point. I take a deep breath, squeeze my butt, drive my heels into the floor and stand up. Once my hips reach full extension, I slowly reverse the motion to return the barbell to the floor. <br />
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I add fifty more pounds to the barbell and rest for a few minutes before I lift again, adding twenty, ten, then five pounds to the bar after each successful dead lift. Step up, reach down, grab hold, focus on the raindrop, breathe and lift. I repeat the process until I can no longer move the barbell off the ground. <br />
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This is an ordinary day at the gym for me. I show up, warm up, load up and lift. Some days it's weights on a barbell, other days it's gymnastics, sprinting, rowing, jumping, throwing weighted balls or swinging heavy kettle bells. The movements vary, but my mind runs the same course. I clear my head of everything but the task before me. I count reps, but try not to add up my weights until after I've lifted them. Over and over again, I chant simple commands to myself: down and up; breathe and push; step up and lift; do it again; one more rep; don't think, just move. <br />
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It's mind over matter. It's meditation in motion. It's growth and progress. It's a hell of a way to start my day, and an incredible way to live my life: one rep at a time. It's CrossFit.Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-32361192899603650322014-01-12T13:29:00.000-08:002014-01-12T13:29:21.819-08:00The Living HomeMy friend, <a href="http://waldorfish.com/" target="_blank">Maya</a>, invited me to participate in a collaborative group called "The Living Home". <br />
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As she explains, "The Living Home is both a gift and a thank you. It's whole-hearted reciprocation for this international community, the diverse inspiration <em>you</em> provide, and the warmth <em>you</em> create in your homes. If there's anything this world needs to thrive, it's families that wake to love, presence and nourishment. In that image, there's so much hope."<br />
<br />
As a firm believer that the home is a sanctuary and the birthplace of all good things, I accepted the invitation. Also, I'll run, jump and scale tall buildings to play with Maya. She is pure magic. <br />
<br />
My definition of home has evolved over the 15 years I've been a homemaker. In the beginning, I thought our home should look like the pages of my favorite magazines and catalogs, and I worked to make it so. When children entered the scene, so did primary colors. Stains took the place of throw pillows on the sofa, plastic toys competed for floor space and family photos replaced breakable pottery on the mantle.<br />
<br />
The lived in preschool look only lasted a few years. Eventually my children outgrew their toys, learned to wash their hands and began to express opinions over which photos of them could be displayed. Chapter books replaced board books, and stacks of drawing paper and buckets of crayons took up permanent residence at the dining table.<br />
<br />
Change came again when my children grew taller than me. They disappeared into their bedrooms behind closed doors. iPods and ear buds replaced Kidz Bop cds. Double mattresses replaced bunk beds. Hanging out replaced play dates. Curling wands replaced dolls. I unsubscribed from Magic Cabin and put a few vases back on the mantle.<br />
<br />
For a short time, I mourned the passing of their childhood and resisted their emerging adolescence; but then I discovered the freedom that accompanies evolution and change. As my growing children demand more privacy and autonomy, I receive my own as well. They explore their interests and passions, and so do I. In the living home, there is room for everybody to grow and expand.<br />
<br />
Today, The Living Home is . . .<br />
<br />
three different types of music playing at the same time.<br />
<br />
a stronger router to deliver greater bandwidth.<br />
<br />
an invitation to the dinner table without insistence that everybody shows up (but silent gratitude when they do). <br />
<br />
a trip to Ikea for new bedding with the belief that everybody will sleep better under a duvet pattern of their choice.<br />
<br />
a cabinet full of tea and three different types of milk in the refrigerator.<br />
<br />
a garage where dad can disappear to tinker and think.<br />
<br />
comic books that are graphic enough to make a mother cringe, but engrossing enough to make a boy choose to read rather than play video games.<br />
<br />
a front door that is always open to friends.<br />
<br />
back to back episodes of America's Funniest Videos, because the family that laughs together spends hours in the same room together.<br />
<br />
walls with patches of paint, and a family's patience for a mother who needs change but can't make up her mind.<br />
<br />
no alarm clocks, and acceptance that a teenager's natural sleep cycle is very different from a middle aged adult's sleep schedule.<br />
<br />
more laundry baskets, because it's easier to live out of a basket than to stuff clothes into drawers.<br />
<br />
finding my missing workout pants in my daughter's room.<br />
<br />
a mom who disappears for a few hours a day to be an athlete and a coach.<br />
<br />
sandwich making ingredients on hand, always.<br />
<br />
a bowl of fruit and access to permanent markers.
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="400" mozallowfullscreen="" msallowfullscreen="" oallowfullscreen="" src="https://www.flickr.com/photos/mollydunham/11915726846/player/27fe2cec40" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="800"></iframe><br />
<br />
Care to play along? Tell me, how does your home live?Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-30586505813184148102014-01-06T14:02:00.000-08:002014-01-06T14:02:32.406-08:00A Love Letter to the Dress I Bought and Returned<a href="http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/product/shopsale-dresses2/29068830.jsp" target="_blank">Dear Dress</a>,<br />
<br />
I wasn't looking to buy anything when we first met. I doubt I would have given you a second look if my friend hadn't pointed you out. Emboldened by a few happy hour sangrias, I took you to the dressing room to try you on. <br />
<br />
My friend was right. You looked great on me. Your rich aqua color made my eyes sparkle. Your lacy cap sleeves softened my muscular shoulders. Your flouncy skirt skimmed my knees at just the right level, concealing the bulk of my quads and emphasizing the definition of my calves. I couldn't help but twirl in front of the mirror, craning my neck to watch you float and drape around my body. <br />
<br />
I wore you out of the dressing room and into the body of the store to show my friend how good we looked together. We caught the eye of several bored men, dutifully holding up the walls while waiting for wives, girlfriends and daughters. For a split second, they didn't look so bored. <br />
<br />
Though you were a bit pricey, I bought you and took you home because you made me feel . . . beautiful. Feminine. Priceless.<br />
<br />
I tried you on again that night to show you off to my family. I expected them to ooh and ahh at the magical combination of your frilly contours and my sharp edges, but they were less than impressed by our duet.<br />
<br />
"Where would you wear it?"<br />
"Your bra straps show in the back."<br />
"That color is too bold for you."<br />
"What shoes would you wear?"<br />
"You're more of a little black dress kind of girl."<br />
<br />
I could have fought for you, but deep down, I was afraid they might be right. Your flounce and frill are frivolous. You would hang silently in the corner of my dark closet. My lifestyle would bore you. A dress like you deserves to be seen. Paraded, envied and admired. You, dear dress, have places to go. Together, we would go nowhere. <br />
<br />
So I released you, returned you to the company of similarly frivolous articles of clothing at the fashionable fantasyland we call Anthropologie. I pray that one of your many other admirers will take you home and give you the life you deserve. <br />
<br />
Perhaps after a series of first dates (or one night stands), you will cross my path again. I will see you hanging in a thrift store, or languishing among eBay listings, worn, but no worse for the wear. You, my dear, are a classic. Timeless and exquisite. <br />
<br />
Should the fates allow us meet again, I will bring you home a second and final time. Dry clean and mend you, if necessary. I will make an occasion to wear you, even if it's just a quiet, shoeless, strapless, candlelit evening at home, just you and me, a bottle of bubbly, and big band standards serenading us from the speakers. <br />
<br />
<em>You'd be so nice . . . You'd be paradise . . . to come home to and love.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Wistfully yours,<br />
<br />
Your size 4 admirerMollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-13047957314132456532013-12-21T14:18:00.000-08:002013-12-21T14:18:33.130-08:00A Story for Solstice<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="535" mozallowfullscreen="" msallowfullscreen="" oallowfullscreen="" src="https://www.flickr.com/photos/mollydunham/11485571824/player/952c7a94b2" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="800"></iframe><br />
<br />
She followed the setting sun for as long and as far as she felt safe traveling by herself.
<br />
<br />
She climbed atop a fallen tree blocking her path and wished for quiet company in the gathering darkness.
<br />
<br />
Turning around, she was startled by the seemingly sudden appearance of the moon, hanging low and full on the horizon, like a mother, heavy with milky sustenance. <br />
<br />
She followed the moon for as long and as far as it took to get home, knowing she was not alone. Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-37462185303108012332013-12-15T13:31:00.000-08:002013-12-15T13:31:31.315-08:00The Best Gift Ever<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mollydunham/11387894404/" title="IMG_3671 (2) by molly dunham, on Flickr"><img alt="IMG_3671 (2)" height="538" src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3695/11387894404_b6c5283b60_c.jpg" width="800" /></a><br />
<br />
As odd as this may sound, the best gift I have ever received resides in the utensil drawer in my kitchen. It didn't cost a fortune and it wasn't a difficult item to procure.<br />
<br />
It was the gift of being heard, though to you it might only look like a stainless steel measuring cup. I can't remember if it was for Mother's Day or Christmas; the occasion really doesn't matter. I was a young mother just settling into my domestic role, a role which required (or so I once believed) the memorization of the recipe for chocolate chip cookies. <br />
<br />
3/4 cup of white sugar and 3/4 cup brown sugar. My set of measuring cups jumped from 1/2 cup to 1 cup, so I had to measure my sugar with two different cups: 1/4 cup plus 1/2 cup. No big deal, of course, but I happened to mention my silly sugar measuring dilemma to my husband, and he, ever the problem solver, fixed my problem with a set of odd sized measuring cups. <br />
<br />
During this season of giving and receiving, it is easy to be consumed by gifts. Thoughtful gifts require just that: thought. As I make my list and check it twice, I remember that the best gift I have received is the gift of two ears, listening; two eyes, seeing; one heart, loving. This I can give freely.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
********</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>He sees in me what I feel in myself. </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>What I feel is immeasurable.</em> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-42322981445874507182013-12-04T16:20:00.001-08:002013-12-04T16:20:38.274-08:00Some Times<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mollydunham/11213478265/" title="sheer volume by molly dunham, on Flickr"><img alt="sheer volume" height="534" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5487/11213478265_cd653fc6b0_c.jpg" width="800" /></a>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
As an aspiring writer, I am often in awe of the sheer volume of words established writers are able to amass. How do they do it? I wonder as I struggle to fill only a few pages of my journal or type a thousand words of a short story - and that on a productive day of writing for me. Other days I manage only a few disjointed lines of prose in the margins of my grocery list. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But don't all writers begin their work with a single word? And that word with a single letter? Or even just a dot where their writing implement first touches paper? What springs forth may become a masterpiece, or it might be wadded up and thrown in the fireplace to catch a spark and become a temporary flash of heat. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Be patient with the process, I tell myself. Trust your words as they come, I remind myself. Write a little or a lot, but write, dammit, so I make myself. And I read, read, read, everything from the large bodies of work by writers I love, to the few short lines shared on social media by friends I adore. And sometimes, in the mixture of all this reading and thinking, something of substance is formed and my words are released like vapor. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So it was today, after I put down Elizabeth Gilbert's "The Signature of All Things" and picked up my iPod to check my Facebook feed, that a poem was born. An amassing of words at the intersection of Moss Time and Screen Time which I'll call . . .</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Some Times</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes we are the waves</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
battering the shore.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes we are the shore</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
rising up for another licking.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes we are the stream</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
filling an empty depression.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes we are the depression</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
needing to be filled.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes we are the pond,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
stagnant with green algae.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes we are the algae,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
growing despite stagnancy.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes we are the boulder,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
impossible to budge.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes we are the moss,</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
breaking the boulder with patience.</div>
Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-50121589590829274992013-11-12T17:57:00.004-08:002013-11-12T17:59:34.177-08:00Mother :: DaughterI have given her<br />
what I wanted<br />
when I was her age:<br />
<br />
No bedtime, no alarm clock;<br />
as much time in bed as possible.<br />
Freedom to believe, to change,<br />
without expectations or arguments.<br />
Time with friends, time alone,<br />
by choice, not obligation.<br />
<br />
Only time will tell<br />
if what I wanted<br />
is right for her.<br />
<br />
<em>Inspired by today's prompt from </em><a href="http://writealm.com/" target="_blank">write alm</a>.Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-52628731043618903012013-11-11T16:34:00.000-08:002013-11-11T16:44:03.904-08:00I Daredto keep running when I wanted to go home<br />
to not throw myself in front of a car when I wanted the pain to end<br />
to sob out loud and never mind that people might hear me<br />
to search for something I fear to need<br />
to ask for advice from a group of like minded strangers<br />
to lose something, knowing I'll find it eventually<br />
to break my own rules<br />
to laugh at myself<br />
to be.<br />
<br />
<em>Inspired by today's writing prompt from </em><a href="http://writealm.com/" target="_blank">write alm</a>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-100412986888977632013-11-06T16:07:00.000-08:002013-11-09T08:19:29.290-08:00Witness to a Broken HeartThey call it vaguebooking, these status updates that beat around the bush. "Hurting" and "feeling sad" hint at heartbreak. "Back home = bittersweet" indicate upheaval. <br />
<br />
Check in at yoga; "feeling better."<br />
Check in at salon; "taking care of myself."<br />
Check in at coffee shop; "missed my old hangout."<br />
Check in at sushi restaurant; "friends are the best!"<br />
<br />
I don't send a virtual hug or emoticon or comment and ask, "Is there anything I can do?", because I don't really know you. I can't even remember how we became "friends". You dated somebody I know but haven't seen for ages, yet I see you almost every morning in my feed. <br />
<br />
I was happy for you when you posted pictures of your newest boyfriend - ex-boyfriend? Pictures of your matching beers at the soft opening of a microbrewery; check-ins at various airports and restaurants on your romantic getaway weekend. But I never commented then, so why would I comment now?<br />
<br />
I find myself thinking about you these last few days. I wonder, what happened? What went wrong with Mr. Right? With your dream job at the winery? When you're ready, you'll share. Not in a straightforward post answering all of my questions, but in updates and status changes. You'll change your status to single, your location back to your hometown, and you'll post pictures of your parent's dog. Maybe you'll check in at the local college campus for an enrichment class or two, providing a hint of what you plan to do next.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I bear witness to your endings and beginnings, my vague friend. You're starting from scratch, and I'll watch you rise again.Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-60802591365907017662013-10-23T15:35:00.000-07:002013-10-23T15:44:33.732-07:00Captured<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mollydunham/10444599763/" title="fear not by molly dunham, on Flickr"><img alt="fear not" height="534" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5548/10444599763_37eed8ba26_c.jpg" width="800" /></a>
<br />
<br />
I stood on the deck railing to get as close to this web as the focus on my fixed lens would allow. My attention was captured by Nature's beaded doily, so much so that I didn't realize that below me was a twenty foot drop down a steep hillside covered in blackberry bushes. Never mind the web, I was now captured by fear as I climbed down from potential disaster.<br />
<br />
I stepped inside a tiny house on display at a solar living institute. Ninety six square feet of tiny bliss. Warm wood cabinetry, a solar panel desk, a corner kitchen bathed in light, a sleeping loft with a cross breeze. My imagination was captured. In my mind, I moved in, bought a Kindle and an electric tea kettle, and hung a hammock chair on the front porch. My real home now feels too big for me.<br />
<br />
I sat down at the computer today to write about a book I read which suggested faith was the antidote to fear, and more specifically, to write about my struggle with faith. But my attention was captured by my daughter's writing class going on in the other room. Junior high and high school girls were reading aloud rough drafts of their "This I Believe" essays. Their beliefs sounded eerily familiar to me; their struggle to express themselves similar to my own. "It's not so easy to write what you believe, is it?", I heard the writing teacher say. I deleted every word I wrote.<br />
<br />
My mind is captured in a web of it's own weaving. Tangled with intention. Disjointed on purpose. Suspended by a few threads. The web is a home, a trap, an occupation, a masterpiece. Familiar to the maker, mesmerizing to the observer, disastrous for the trespasser. I keep getting caught.<br />
<br />Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-29861541283669002912013-10-07T13:36:00.001-07:002013-10-07T14:37:07.255-07:00Goodnight BookIn the house across from the brook<br />
There was a laptop<br />
And a partially finished book<br />
And a picture of - <br />
<br />
A fish dangling from a hook<br />
<br />
And there were two sleepy heads getting ready for bed<br />
<br />
And an empty coffee can<br />
And a broken house fan<br />
<br />
And an ugly black bug<br />
And a moth eaten rug<br />
<br />
And a cough and a hiccup and water in a cup<br />
<br />
And a tired mom yelling, "GET IN BED AND STOP GETTING UP!"<br />
<br />
Goodnight brook<br />
Goodnight book<br />
<br />
Goodnight fish dangling from a hook<br />
<br />
Goodnight laptop<br />
and the partially finished book<br />
<br />
Goodnight sleepy heads<br />
Goodnight beds<br />
<br />
Goodnight empty coffee can<br />
And goodnight broken house fan<br />
<br />
Goodnight alarm clocks<br />
And goodnight mismatched socks<br />
<br />
Goodnight ugly black bug<br />
And goodnight moth eaten rug<br />
<br />
Goodnight cough<br />
And goodnight hiccup<br />
<br />
Goodnight nobody<br />
Goodnight water cup<br />
<br />
And goodnight to the tired mom yelling, "GET IN BED AND STOP GETTING UP!"<br />
<br />
Goodnight easy<br />
Goodnight fair<br />
<br />
Goodnight messes everywhere.Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-43570953648745781942013-10-04T17:46:00.000-07:002013-10-04T18:15:08.642-07:00Light and Sound<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mollydunham/10091727825/" title="light and sound by molly dunham, on Flickr"><img alt="light and sound" height="533" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5449/10091727825_10cace3528_c.jpg" width="800" /></a><br />
<br />
I want to write about the light and the sound right now. It is mid afternoon, early October. Cool enough to be wearing jeans and a long sleeve shirt, warm enough to have bare feet and an open window. In other words, perfect. <br />
<br />
I'm sitting in the dining room, though we never dine in here. The family room has become dining room number two since it has room for a larger table and it's a few steps closer to the kitchen. This room is more conducive to creating than eating, hence the scraps of paper littering the floor and the paper cutter sitting beside my laptop.<br />
<br />
The sun streaming through the east facing window is warming my denim clad legs and illuminating the small plastic aquarium sitting on the windowsill. Two mature sea monkeys are swimming in frantic circles. I wonder if they need food. I honestly can't believe they're still alive.<br />
<br />
Through the open window I can hear the high school band practice for tonight's homecoming game. The band knows a lot of Michael Jackson songs, 'cause you know they're bad, they're bad, you know it. The band takes a break and I swear I can hear, "hut, hut, hut". My daughter paces behind me, busily texting her friends, making plans to hang out and not watch football at the football game tonight. <br />
<br />
This light that fills this room, those sounds from the high school football field that travel over the railroad tracks and across the tree tops, this...this...this is why I chose this home. This is what I saw and heard the first time I walked into this room 15 years ago, and in that moment I knew this was where I wanted to be, despite the knotty wood paneling which used to cover the walls and the hideous wagon wheel chandelier which used to hang above my head. Those things were easy to change, but I knew this light and those sounds were hard to come by.<br />
<br />
A choir sings the national anthem. The crowd cheers and the game begins. The sun dips a little lower and the golden glow fades. That perfect moment, the collision of light and sound that inspired me to sit down and write, has passed. Now it's time to make dinner. Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-14975961550968142012013-08-30T13:07:00.000-07:002013-08-30T13:07:42.549-07:00dear writer,
when i was a schoolgirl, i had a schoolgirl crush of epic proportions. it lasted from elementary school until college. the problem was, i was too shy to actually talk to the object of my crush. so instead i wrote to him . . . in a secret journal i kept underneath my mattress.<br />
<br />
i don't remember what i wrote, only that i wrote what i could not say out loud. at the time, it was an effective way to deal with my unrequited feelings, but eventually it became embarrassing. so embarrassing, in fact, that once the journal was filled, i tore the pages to pieces and flushed them down the toilet.<br />
<br />
i'm sharing this story with you, dear writer, to illustrate the power of the epistle, "a composition in the form of a letter" (webster's dictionary). the letter is an incredibly personal and honest way to express thoughts and feelings that are difficult to express any other way. i have exposed some my greatest vulnerabilities on sheets of paper stuffed into envelopes (like the love letter i wrote in the third grade, on hello kitty stationary, to a boy named rick).<br />
<br />
earlier this week, an epistle went viral. a mother with meniere's disease and a modest blog following wrote a post titled, "<a href="http://roadkillgoldfish.com/2013/08/26/dear-daughter-let-miley-cyrus-be-a-lesson-to-you/" target="_blank">dear daughter, let miley cyrus be a lesson to you</a>". the post was shared, pinned, tweeted, and eventually reposted by major news networks.<br />
<br />
i read it via a link on facebook, but didn't think much about it until yesterday when i received a weekly email from twitter highlighting this week's popular tweets. this tweet hit a nerve: "dear daughter, instead of writing a self-aggrandizing letter to you that will get clicks online, i'm just going to sit down and talk to you."<br />
<br />
dear tweeter, you completely missed the point.<br />
<br />
the "dear daughter" letter was not self aggrandizement. it's creative writing. <br />
<br />
just as i was not actually writing to the object of my affection each night before bed when i pulled my secret journal from underneath my mattress, so too the author of the "dear daughter" piece was not actually writing to her daughter. she employed a clever method to publicly express her reaction to a popular event, and she likely had no idea her post would go viral. i bet the exposure has been both exhilarating and exhausting for her.<br />
<br />
i also bet that she did sit down and talk to her daughter about miley's performance, thicke's song, and twerking in general. my daughter and i have been talking about twerking for weeks, ever since i asked her what it was. she gave me a description, and i put my hands on the ground, my feet on the wall, and rhythmically thrust my pelvis a few times. "is this twerking?", i asked, guaranteeing with a simple question and an embarrassing dance that my daughter will never, ever, twerk in public. <br />
<br />
but enough about self degradation. let's get back to self aggrandizement, "the enhancement of one's own importance, power, or reputation" (webster's dictionary). is that not the goal of writing, dear writer? to enhance oneself through the use of words? do not our words lend our thoughts importance, our ideas power, and our reputation strength? <br />
<br />
"writing is a muscle," writes <a href="http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/the-ultimate-guide-to-writing-better-than-you-normally-do?fb_action_ids=10201865457786986&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_ref=.Uh9iOdvTZ_A.like&fb_source=aggregation&fb_aggregation_id=288381481237582" target="_blank">colin nissan</a>. "smaller than a hamstring and slightly bigger than a bicep, and it needs to be exercised to get stronger. think of your words as reps, your paragraphs as sets, your pages as daily workouts. think of your laptop as a machine like the one at the gym where you open and close your inner thighs in front of everyone, exposing both your insecurities and your genitals. because that is what writing is all about." (<a href="http://www.mcsweeneys.net/tendency" target="_blank">mcsweeney's</a>)<br />
<br />
you know what machine he's talking about. it's just as embarrassing as twerking. get on it. don't listen to those mean girls who laugh and point at the sweat stain emanating from your crotch and spreading down your thighs. let them have their fun in 140 characters or less. sweat through your words. squeeze your thoughts into submission. whether your work goes viral or gets flushed down the toilet is beside the point. you are not a schoolgirl with a crush. you are a writer, blessed and cursed with a love and need for words. get to work. <br />
<br />
sincerely yours,<br />
<br />
a fellow writerMollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-46732669357310165392013-08-16T11:04:00.000-07:002013-08-16T13:28:26.486-07:00friends<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mollydunham/9522939591/" title="friends by molly dunham, on Flickr"><img alt="friends" height="533" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5489/9522939591_291dc5b6e4_o.jpg" width="800" /></a>
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<br />
earlier this week my son asked me, "mom, how do you know if someone is your friend?"
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<br />
"i don't know. i've wondered the very same thing," i honestly answered.
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over the next few days, i discovered a few answers. <br />
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a friend is someone who asks you how you're doing and actually wants to know. if you happen to break down in tears they say, "i've got you. let go of your gravity and i'll hold you up as long as you need." so you let go, and they don't let you fall.
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a friend is someone who asks, "what's going on?", not to pry, but because they really want to know. so you tell them, and they don't think you're whining or complaining. they listen and nod and maybe their eyes well up with a few tears. they shift the contents of their heart around to make room for you and your story, and you know that part of you is now safe in their warm chamber. your story does not linger on the tip of their tongue to be passed onto others who also don't know how you know if someone is your friend.
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<br />
a friend is someone in front of whom you can lift up your shirt and show them your vulnerable spot, and instead of laughing and pointing or recoiling in disgust, they say, "i like you even more than i did before."
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a friend is someone who can tell you something true about yourself, particularly something you wish was not true, something you don't want to believe but need to know so that you too can be honest, with them and with yourself. owning this truth will in turn make you a better friend.
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<br />
of course my daughter knew all this already, for she answered her brother's question like this:
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<br />
"duh. you just talk to them."
Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-67084576620627649602013-08-13T18:31:00.000-07:002013-08-13T18:31:27.222-07:00the future is hacking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJt73O42aK1rwuRWL1_kdCrPcymnnhKEXcfXmzcXAHzHzI5VbXsF6FLN7C5yOK60ajT8V2BZZ3Tbj1k7w1ez8fRbU7SGROMlIz8UITsg-BrfwdtJMJC3FhSCugrw8LxxfAO5jpT2m4HZc/s1600/hacker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJt73O42aK1rwuRWL1_kdCrPcymnnhKEXcfXmzcXAHzHzI5VbXsF6FLN7C5yOK60ajT8V2BZZ3Tbj1k7w1ez8fRbU7SGROMlIz8UITsg-BrfwdtJMJC3FhSCugrw8LxxfAO5jpT2m4HZc/s1600/hacker.jpg" /></a></div>
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"<a href="http://www.linkedin.com/today/post/article/20130807171044-5853751-tomorrow-s-entrepreneurs-are-playing-minecraft-today" target="_blank">tomorrow's entrepreneurs are playing #minecraft today</a>" read the title of a recent article that blazed through my circle of homeschooling buddies on facebook. i didn't read it (yet) because i live it. i already believe it without a doubt. <br />
<br />
minecraft consumes my boy and his friends. not a day goes by that i don't hear the words "budder" (aka "gold" for those of you without ten year old boys), "creeper", or "steve".<br />
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let me tell you something else tomorrow's entrepreneurs are doing thanks to minecraft: they're hacking. watching tutorials, downloading mods, and learning more about computers in one afternoon than i'll ever know. <br />
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but they're doing more than hacking computers. they're hacking the system. tomorrow's entrepreneurs are finding a way around the powers that be to get what they want today. they're looking behind the curtain and seeing how the gears work . . . and how to make the gears work for them. <br />
<br />
and not just the gears on the computer. my son took a break from minecraft today to rescue a bike from the dumpster, take it apart, and make it work again. this, too, is hacking. taking something apart and making it his own, the very same way he'll build his future.<br />
<br />
recently, an accidentally deleted account and an afternoon of tears resulted in a call to 1-800-xbox. while the representative could do nothing to fix our problem, we were told not to worry, they wouldn't be pressing charges for the "illegal use" of their product (read: hacking). and thank goodness for that - our court system would be overwhelmed with microsoft vs. pre-pubescent boy cases. <br />
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a few days of thinking, brainstorming, and experimenting later , the boy restored his account, all on his own. i need not worry. his future is budder.Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-3175575863308070312013-08-11T10:04:00.000-07:002013-08-11T10:05:10.126-07:00grilled peaches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvBKktSU6ghZ0tofvuJmZsbFOGdB7PQX35yNIBesU9uSqKheuKB1L1qG0O79s7pl1-N7fqbfHbG8v_zg0Q5d5GoGXx6jBMBRR3Em1gDPgaXs4UJL4rGcUYWTA9sVXeq7xjl0EvL_BfUXw/s1600/grilledpeaches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvBKktSU6ghZ0tofvuJmZsbFOGdB7PQX35yNIBesU9uSqKheuKB1L1qG0O79s7pl1-N7fqbfHbG8v_zg0Q5d5GoGXx6jBMBRR3Em1gDPgaXs4UJL4rGcUYWTA9sVXeq7xjl0EvL_BfUXw/s1600/grilledpeaches.jpg" /></a></div>
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this is not a food blog, though for a while i did consider starting one. i also fantasized about writing a cookbook until i realized it would hardly be a book at all. more like a pamphlet. actually, i could condense all my cooking instructions to a sticky note. it would look something like this:<br />
<br />
meat: coat with salt and pepper. grill, broil, pan fry, or brown and braise.<br />
vegetables: chop, dice, or slice. steam, serve raw, or rub with coconut oil, salt, and pepper and grill or bake.<br />
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the title of my cooking sticky note could be "<a href="http://mollydunham.blogspot.com/2013/08/k.html" target="_blank">k.i.s.s.</a> the cook".<br />
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i like to keep it simple in the kitchen. i like to taste the real flavor of the food i'm cooking. grilled peaches (and nectarines) taste like summer. they're like pie without the crust and the sweltering hot kitchen. they're so good, i lick the plate when they're gone. <br />
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get some while they're hot.<br />
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<em>grilled peaches: slice in half and remove pits. put some coconut oil in your palm and rub your hands together to melt it, then gently massage the peaches to coat them with oil. grill both sides for a few minutes. enjoy.</em>Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3979110072753182932.post-42139581977462317522013-08-09T16:22:00.001-07:002013-08-10T07:54:01.530-07:00k.i.s.s.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifuQUzDtE0iEAr_Bfv30lAYmPGfR6MAhkaljMiUPCMezTTiE3HCZ1Vego8behf1nZpk3jrxeIPSZHEiAqxeSBbr9yrLfc5e6a4BWeRJYthY1FM9YqDYaFSdGInf4_fabQMlaE_o2deUAo/s1600/IMG_2338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifuQUzDtE0iEAr_Bfv30lAYmPGfR6MAhkaljMiUPCMezTTiE3HCZ1Vego8behf1nZpk3jrxeIPSZHEiAqxeSBbr9yrLfc5e6a4BWeRJYthY1FM9YqDYaFSdGInf4_fabQMlaE_o2deUAo/s1600/IMG_2338.jpg" /></a></div>
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k.i.s.s. <br />
keep it simple, stupid. <br />
<br />
an acronym discovered in a survival manual. a survival method in itself. <br />
<br />
i crave simplicity. it's crucial to my survival. yet i tend to complicate things.<br />
<br />
for example:<br />
<br />
i've wanted to begin a new blog for years now, but i've complicated the process.<br />
<br />
what do i call my blog?<br />
how should i arrange the sidebar?<br />
what picture do i use for my header?<br />
what do i do with my old blog?<br />
will my followers follow my move?<br />
<br />
"keep it simple, stupid," i tell myself. don't name your blog. forget the sidebar and header. say goodbye to your old blog and give your friends directions to your new blog. above all else, write.<br />
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"write like a motherfucker," advises sugar.<br />
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so that's what i'm going to do. simply write like my life depends on it, because i think it might. Mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15738318324942700985noreply@blogger.com11